When we walk the kids to school, our kindergarteners clutch our hands the whole 40 minute walk. Their little metal lunch pails weigh heavy in the other hand, their little plastic slippers step in the muddiest parts of the road barely missing the cow patties or donkey waster, but they won’t let go.
For that walk, my hands are not my own. They are theirs.
For that walk, I will step extra careful because the rain makes the mud slick and I don’t want to fall and take the kids down with me.
For that walk I will stretch my arms like Mr. Fantastic and step in the puddle so they don’t have to let go.
For that walk I will stop for a stone in a shoe. And I will respond to the calls to go faster.
For that walk I will forgo a drink of water knowing I can make it to the destination.
Because my hands are theirs.
When that walk ends, I enter a gate where there are over 40 kindergarteners. All of them simply want to hold my hand. And they will do anything to do it. They will yank someone else’s hand out. They will bite. They will kick. They will hit with the hand that is not in mine.
It’s not about the violence, that’s simply life to them. It’s about how much they value simply holding my hand.
I’m still left mystified most days with how much they crave the simple touch. How my hand at its lowest point is sometimes their eye level. How they will hold your hand for hours and just move when you move.
My knees almost buckle when a hand-holding session ends with little lips kissing the back of my hand.
The walk back from the school, it’s just us. Just the teachers as the two local teachers continue teaching the kids after lunch.
Once again little kids come out of the wood-work of the village and little hands slip into mine. These are the shortest hand-holding sessions. But they are beautiful nonetheless.
The kids seem to know how far they can go before heading back.
It astounds me how much they will go out of their way, just for a few more seconds of holding my hand.
Reflecting on it, I’ve decided that’s how I wish to live my life. I want to simply hold Jesus’s hand.
I’ll cling to it as I hold my lunch pail.
I’ll step in mud and cow patties if it means I can keep my grip of His hand.
I’ll fight (not others but the enemy) when he tries to yank my hand out of His.
I’ll kiss His hand not because I’m letting go, but just because I can.
I’ll go out of my own way for just a few more seconds with Him.
I will fearlessly let Him lead me on more adventures, because I trust He knows where to go.
And like I did, I know He will do everything He can to make my way easier.
That He will feel loved in the moments we are doing nothing but watching the others play on the play ground. Neither of us will ever feel like we are missing out because we know that holding hands is everything we want.
He will smile down and swing my hand as we continue down this muddy, rocky, poop-laden, seemingly long but altogether too short road we call life on earth.
